Turning the corner

Then one day I was talking to a colleague from work. I was telling her about Toby's inconsolable nature and how I often felt like it was my fault. "When I had my first daughter, she was the easiest baby in the world," my coworker told me. "She never gave me a moment's trouble, and I thought it was because I was the perfect mother. Then my second daughter arrived, and she never stopped fussing. That's when I decided that it's all biology." At that moment, I felt as if someone had handed me a get-out-of-jail-free card.

The blame I was piling on myself for Toby's fussiness was just as "deserved" as my colleague's crediting herself for her easy baby. Maybe it was biology, or maybe it was an anxiety that Toby was picking up on. Did it matter? I was doing the best I knew how. So was Toby.

Slowly, I accepted myself as a competent mother, and I also accepted Toby for who he was. My son was overwhelmed by light and noise, just as I hated crowded, noisy restaurants. Toby took a while to warm up to new situations  -- just as my husband had cried hysterically on his first day of school up until junior high. Toby was a worrier. Clearly, so was I. But Toby was also tuned in to people and activity around him in an intense and fascinating way. He was a lover of music. He was a snuggle bunny. The more I got to know Toby, the more I saw his "difficult" qualities in a positive light. And as I got to know myself as a mom, I liked what I saw. I could stick with my baby through thick and thin. I could take the time to really know my son, without demanding that he be somebody else  -- a perfect baby. Toby's fussiness helped me bond with him in a way I'm not certain I would have had he been the easy baby I'd hoped for.

It is 6:22 a.m. on Toby's first birthday, and he is fussing. But I am smiling. He is fussing because he's waking up from 11 solid hours of sleep, and he is excited to start the day. He can't wait to scoot around on his bottom, chasing the dog. He's eager to pull himself up on the window seat and cruise from one side of the ledge to the other. He is hungry and wants to stuff his mouth full of juicy, ripe melon. I can't wait to get him from his crib. A few months ago, we realized Toby had pretty much stopped fussing. Around that time, he also stopped spitting up and started taking decent naps. Was there a connection? Maybe, but we'll never really know, and it really doesn't matter. I will not hear any "uhh, uhh, uhh" today.

I will hear him say "dada" or "nana" (mama?) as he hands us something he'd like us to look at. I will hear his serious silence as he focuses on arranging piles of Cheerios on his tray, just how he wants them. And I will hear his squeals of laughter when his doggy finally lets him catch her or his daddy blows kisses on his neck. He still lets out blood-curdling screams when he is frustrated. We are trying to teach him the sign for "help," so he can substitute it for the screech when he can't get the big cup into the little cup. But we're not too worried. The scream hurts our ears, but it is very much Toby's scream. We could pick him, with that screech, out of a sea of 1-year-old boys. He is very much our child, and I love him with a love that's surely bigger than any in the history of mothers and sons.